Dog Fight
by SmokeMyCancer
Summary: Carl leaned forward on his knees and buried his face in his hands so that Frank didn't see his wet cheeks. Part of my "The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Carl Gallagher" series.


Dog Fight

_Part of __**The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Carl Gallagher**__ series_

As the dog's teeth ripped through flesh on Carl's hand, he let out a curdling scream and fell back onto his ass. This monster on top of him, trying to claw its way through his torso and limbs, was a Shepherd and Rottie mix. Vicious. Carl bared his teeth and punched the animal square in the jaw. He did not even elicit a yelp, much less make the beast release him. So he punch again. And again. By the fourth punch, Carl was bleeding everywhere and so was the dog. Finally carl felt the teeth slip out of the punctures on his arm. The dog scampered back, growling and whining all the same. Quickly, Carl got to his feet. He and the monster starting one another down.

This room was cold. Thank goodness because Carl was sweating enough just from exertion. Cold, small, filthy, and loud. This dog and Carl stood dead center a circle of men holding up wads of cash. Handing off bets. Screaming. The muscled, young Hispanic man near the door yelled at the dog. Whose name was Buddy. The lanky, older, white man behind Carl whipped his ponytail and screamed, "Get in there!" at Carl. The man's long, some missing, rotting teeth showed. He was furious. Amped.

In a slow rumble, the dog lowered backward, all hair on end. Ready to go for his kill. Carl planted his feet firmly. When Buddy jumped, Carl caught the dog and flung the animal hard against the floor. He heard the neck snap. His stomach lurched. Face bunching up as the victory group behind him sounded off, Carl vomited up everything in his system. Fell down, bleeding and refusing to cry, beside the corpse of Buddy.

Fiona's laughter filled the air. Bubbly and relaxed. Carl, breathing through his busted up mouth, ascended the staircase unnoticed.

Once upstairs, Carl hopped in the shower. He locked the door behind him. Let the steaming hot water roll off his body, cleanse and disinfect his wounds. The puncture wounds were still bleeding. Water danced around the black, spewing holes, and ran trails of red down Carl's body and circled the drain. Carl pressed his forehead into the wall and hissed in through clenched teeth. Bared the pain until he felt clean enough.

Only mildly refreshed, Carl reached down and shut off the water. He stood there and dripped dry for a while. Then stepped out and wrapped his torn up arms in gauze and ace-bandaged. As soon as he opened the bathroom door, he was met with the sound of his family's joy. Today was Frank's birthday. He'd missed the party in lieu of getting his ass handed to him by an animal that did not deserve what had happened.

Swallowing the ball in his throat, Carl, sniffed up his tears and walked the hallway in his towel, bloody clothes and paper bag under arm. He dressed in one of his cleaner outfits and stood in front of his window, rubbing his face.

So focused on his own self hate and pity was Carl, that he missed the sound of footsteps creaking into his room.

"Watch are you hiding up here for?" Frank's voice asked

Eyes widening, Carl turned around and cleared his throat. He shrugged casually to Frank, saying, "Just got home from work."

Frank's eyes trailed over the bandages, blood seeping through, on Carl's arms. He scratched his scruffy, wrinkled face, and smirked out a chuckle. Leaning on the door frame, Frank folded his arms up in the too-big for his wilting frame, flannel shirt. The smile brightened his suspicious eyes. "Work huh?" Frank hummed, disbelieving for a good reason. "Must have been one hell of a night," his scratchy, aging voice, laughed quietly.

Carl rubbed the back of his neck sheeishly. He reached onto the nightstand beside of him, picked up the paper bag he'd carried in, unnoticed. He watched his father's brow crease. Saw Frank's mouth turn down curiously from the wide smile he had been donning. Watched Frank scratch his bald head. Carl sighed and held out the bag. "Got you a birthday present," he told Frank, shaking the bag.

Frank stepped in, brows arched. On second thought, he closed Carl's door behind him. Locked it before moving forward once more. He reached out and took his gift. Pulling off the paper bag as he sat down on the edge of his son's bed, Frank turned the bottle of beer over in his hand stunned and mesmerized. The bed squeaked as Carl lowered down to sit by Frank. Frank's eyes looked up, filled with the start of tears.

Clapping his dad's frail back, Carl cleared his throat again to mask his own emotions. "I figured," Carl started in, eyes trained ahead at his door, "a dying man should get to do what he enjoys during his last days." He kept on staring ahead, least he look at his father and let way the flood gate off all his despair. "Can't hurt you worse, right?" Carl breathed, tried to smile.

Low in his throat, Frank chuckled and turned over the large bottle of Taddy porter. He nodded his head and patted Carl's shoulder. Gripped the boy tightly. He breathed out a heavy breath and cracked open the lid. A grin touched Frank's mouth as he turned up the bottle and took his first sip of alcohol in nearly nine dry years. He smacked his lips, laughing as he pulled the bottle away and eyed it happily. "Oh boy," Frank hummed, nodding fervently as he took another drink, "this is good!" He offered the bottle out to Carl. "This is why you've always been my favorite kid," Frank informed. "You aren't afraid to let be what comes natural," he said. Carl waved the offer off, sparing a reassuring glance at his father. Frank shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said and took another drink.

Carl leaned forward on his knees and buried his face in his hands so that Frank didn't see his wet cheeks. "I love you, dad," Carl told Frank, and tried not to sob as his father patted his back.

His father, who was dying of liver cancer that had once gone into remission. His father who was the greatest man Carl had even known, despite what others might say of him.

"I love you too, son," Frank said, sniffing hard and wiping at his eye as he took another drink.


End file.
